The Haircut

Jim looked up at the calendar in the platoon office. He was waiting for Sgt. Black to arrive so together, they could take care of some business. It was Friday, January 23, 1970; he had a little over three months to go, and he would be finished with his tour of Vietnam. Then, with any luck, by June, Jim would receive orders to return as a flight instructor at Fort Wolters, and he could finish out his army career in Mineral Wells, Texas. This was his second time in Vietnam, and on this hitch, he was assigned to the 610th Transportation Company, stationed at Camp Viking on the coast of Vietnam, about 8 miles north of Da Nang. It was a good outfit, and Jim had the opportunity to do a lot of flying. The 610th was responsible for servicing and repairing helicopters, and in addition to flying the big Chinooks, Jim, as a senior aviator, also served as a test pilot on many of the repaired aircraft.

Jim really didn’t want to come back to Vietnam. During his first tour, back in 1966, he’d served with the 1st Aviation Battalion, attached to the 1st Infantry Division, the Big Red One. He did a lot of combat flying, and Jim had his share of some hairy missions. However, during the monsoon season, on a routine nighttime flight to pick up a wounded soldier, a fatal accident occurred. Faulty equipment caused his aircraft, the Bell Huey, to crash land at 100 mph. Jim was the only survivor of the accident. He once showed a pal of his a picture of the wrecked chopper. The friend marveled, commenting that it was “a miracle by the hand of God” that Jim survived.

After a year of recovery and rehab, he was sent to Wolters as an instructor. Jim figured he’d seen the last of Southeast Asia, but as the war dragged on, helicopter pilots were in high demand, especially experienced pilots. In addition, there were officers, Captains and Majors, and the like, with flight experience returning from tours of the Nam, and everyone had a pal who wanted a posting at Wolters. Those commissioned officers, no matter how much Army experience Jim had under his belt, outranked him, a Chief Warrant Officer (CWO). Nevertheless, he was not without friends of his own, and up to about a month before he was to leave for Vietnam, there was still a chance that Jim would not have to ship out and would stay at Ft. Wolters. In the end, things just didn’t work out. Now, with a few months to go, he was just trying to do his job, do it well, and return home in one piece. That was a challenge for anyone who set foot in Vietnam, especially in 1970.

Of course, it wasn’t all bad in Vietnam, and this assignment had its perks. Each day he would marvel at the beauty of the South China Sea as he jockeyed out of the flight line at Camp Viking and began to gain altitude with an aircraft. Jim’s unit provided general support to more than 1,000 aircraft, as well as reassembling, test flying, and issuing all Army aircraft arriving in Vietnam through Da Nang. That meant there was always something to do and fix, and there was always aircraft needing flying. The Cau Do River appeared like a giant snake winding its way through the countryside and through Da Nang, finally emptying into the sea. Often, clouds and mist lingered over Monkey Mountain and Marble Mountain, shrouding them like some hidden house of the Gods. Sights like that almost made him forget for a moment, if only a moment, that he was in a war.

While Jim enjoyed his work, the constant motion of flying and his assignments in the air, he found himself greatly bothered by apathy on the ground that seemed to prevail among some of the enlisted men stationed in and around Camp Viking. It wasn’t like that in 1966. Then, every man kept himself wired tight, but he also realized that in 66 he was attached to a combat unit. However, even then, in the rear, soldiers still at least put on the pretense of Army discipline. Four years later, Vietnam was a different place, but the Army was still the same Army, and Jim was an Army man, through and through. At his core, he believed that maintaining discipline was essential in Army life, especially in a war zone. As far as he was concerned, there were no exceptions to the rules, especially when you’d been given a chance to make things right, yet discipline seemed to grow more and more lax with each passing day.

Recently, he’d been having some problems with a Specialist 4 aircraft mechanic Malcolm Green. For two days now, Jim had mentioned in passing to Green that he needed to get a regulation military haircut, and each time they had crossed paths since then, Jim had noticed that Green’s hair was still not cut to Army regs. Finally, earlier that day of 23 January, after morning formation, CWO Jim Alexander had a word with Mr. Green.

“Specialist Green, I need to speak you. Remain after dismissal”
Green lingered as the rest of the company dispersed, going about their morning duties. Jim waited with Green until everyone was well out of earshot, and then he began to speak.
“Specialist Green, I instructed you, two days ago, to get a regulation Army haircut, and you have yet to do so.” Jim paused, eyeballing Green for a moment to gauge reaction, and then he continued.

“If I didn’t know any better, Soldier, I would think you were directly disobeying an order. That would be a big problem, Mister.” Green said nothing, starring forward blankly. Jim continued.

“Now, …you will get a hair cut, Mister, and…you will report to me at 1330 hours today with that haircut. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir” answered Green in a flat voice. There was something eerie in his tone.
“Dismissed!” barked Jim, and then the CWO turned and walked away.

Now, Jim waited in the platoon HQ area for Sgt. Black, Green’s squad leader, to arrive. It was 13:00 hours. The sound of Black coming through the door drew Jim’s attention away from the calendar.

“Master Sergeant Black reporting as ordered, Sir!” Black ripped off a sharp salute.
“At ease, Sergeant. We need to talk about one of your troops. You want a cup of Joe?”
“Thank you, Sir.”

Jim leaned back in the swivel chair and Black poured a cup of coffee and sat in one of the empty camp chairs scattered around the room.
“Tell me about Specialist 4 Green.”

“Well, Sir, I have been having some minor difficulties with him, Sir. He has a problem doing what he is told, and he has no drive. He is pretty much a loner, and I do not see him socializing with the other men very much. Lately, he has become even more difficult.” Jim was silent for a moment, and Black waited for him to speak.

“Well” said Jim, “I have directed him twice to get a hair cut, the last time this morning at formation. He has been instructed to report to me at 13:30 with a military haircut, and I want you to be here when he arrives.” Jim paused, “We are going to take care of this together.”
“Yes Sir! What will we do when he arrives, Sir?” Black seemed a little nervous, but Jim just smiled at him.

“Relax Sergeant; let’s just see what happens when he gets here.”

At 13:30, Private Malcolm Green entered the platoon shop area. He was a skinny kid, a draftee, from Jersey City, New Jersey. He was just two months shy of his twenty-first birthday. Green said nothing as he entered the shop, saluted, and silently he stood before the two men. Black immediately noticed that the soldier did not appear to have his hair cut.
Jim spoke first.

“Private, it appears you still have not gotten a military hair cut.”

Green said nothing. He just stood silently. Jim sat quietly for a moment, mulling over what the next course of action would be. Finally, he rose up from the chair and spoke.

“Well, I’ll tell you what, Private; you, me, and Sergeant Black are going to all take a little stroll over to the camp barber shop and get a quick trim. What do you say Sergeant? You wouldn’t mind going over to the barber shop with me and Green, would you?”
“No Sir” answered Black. Finally, now shifting from foot to foot like he was uncomfortable, Green spoke.

“I have gotten a hair cut.” His voice was flat and emotionless. Something about the sound of it made Black a little uneasy, but this was CWO Alexander’s show, and he was calling the shots.
Rather than argue, CWO Alexander, an Army man through and through, just gave the soldier an order.

“Let’s go.” and he headed out of the shop door. As Black moved to follow, he turned to Green.
“Let’s move it, Private.”

Green reluctantly followed.

The three men moved across the open common area of the Viking compound in a staggered line. It was a beautiful afternoon. Nearby, a group of off duty soldiers played volleyball on a makeshift court, shirts off, sweating and laughing loudly, bantering about the score and who among them had the hardest serve. Other soldiers moved here and there between the shops and offices that circled the area. After about thirty or so paces, Jim heard a shrill voice cut through the air. It was Green’s. This time, there was emotion.

“I have been to the barber, and I do not want to get another haircut!” It was almost a scream.

Jim slowed stride long enough to yell back over his shoulder at Green.
“At ease, soldier! Don’t make a scene.” Green mumbled an inaudible response, and something in it made Sergeant Black turn and face Specialist 4 Malcolm Green.

For Master Sergeant Black, reality geared down into slow motion as he observed Green pull something from his left pants pocket. Instantly, a grim recognition shook Black, and things shifted back into full speed as he yelled out a warning.

“He’s got a grenade!”

Black, now frozen like a statue, observed as, in one motion, Green reached with his right hand and deliberately pulled the pin out of the grenade and cast it to the ground. Then, Green held the grenade up and released the spoon mechanism. The deadly ball of metal would detonate in exactly four seconds.

The reality of life and death brought Black back to life in a flash, and he moved quickly for cover around the corner of a nearby building. As he hit the deck and rolled, he could see CWO Alexander hurriedly walking back towards Green. He had closed the distance quickly, and Black saw him grab Green by the wrist of the upraised arm as Green made a motion to toss the grenade. Jim stopped Green cold. The men were face to face, and neither spoke a word. Black covered his head, hearing the loud explosion that followed the detonation of the grenade.

Acrid smoke hung in the air as Black ran back towards the two soldiers. Through the smoke, he could see both men lying on the ground. As he got closer, he spied Jim’s right arm, or what was left of it, sticking up in the air. The arm was missing from the elbow down, and some pulp that resembled what used to be the rest of his arm and hand, lay a few feet away.

Green was beside him on his back. A large pool of blood colored the sandy ground underneath him gray, and his face was blue. It was obvious, from the gaping hole in side of Green’s head, that he was probably dead. Another soldier knelt at Jim’s side.

“Sergeant,” said Jim weakly as Black kneeled over him, “Get me a tourniquet.” There was yelling and lots of activity now. The wail of the ambulance could be heard in the background. From somewhere among the crowd that had now gathered, a tourniquet was produced, but the Sergeant with Jim was struggling and shaking, trying to figure out the best way to dress his wounds. Calmly, Jim gave the soldier instructions on how to bandage what remained of his arm. The ambulance arrived as the soldier finished, and then Jim closed his eyes…


Dear Mom, January 28, 1970
As you may have heard from Dorothy, I am not now in Vietnam, but rather in a hospital in Japan recuperating from an accident.
The accident occurred when a mentally deranged soldier tried to toss a grenade into a platoon formation in my company. I attempted to restrain him but was not completely successful, and the grenade exploded, blowing off my right hand and giving me some minor shrapnel wounds on the right side of my body. Do not worry; I am in no danger, and I will be home in 4-6 weeks. In the meantime, try to keep your spirits and Dorothy’s spirits both up.
My address here is 106 General Hospital, APOSF, 96503. Just keep in touch with Dorothy and keep her cheered up. I will be glad to get any letters from any of the relatives, but they must be sent airmail to arrive in time. At least I will not have to return to Vietnam, so now maybe I can live at home together with Dorothy for the rest of our days.
Pass this information along to John and Ann, especially since John contacted the Red Cross. I am feeling fine and chipper and expect to recuperate fast. Take care now and write soon.
Yours,
Jim
P.S. This letter is being written for me by a Red Cross worker.

The official Army car wound its way down the country roads of Hendricks County until it reached the small farm between Lizton and North Salem, Indiana. Gravel crunched as it pulled into the driveway, and the old collie barked at the two strangers who stepped out of the car and knocked at the door. When she opened the door, Mozella, who was wise to the ways of the world, knew exactly what was happening. The Army officer and her Methodist minister stood in the cold February air. She motioned them to follow and then turned and headed toward the living room.

She sat back in her rocking chair, and the minister put his hand on her shoulder while the Captain offered condolences and handed her a Western Union telegram in a yellow envelope. Mozella opened the it with shaking hands and began to scan the lines of the message. Her eyes quickly filled with tears.

THE SECRETARY OF THE ARMY HAS ASKED ME TO EXPRESS HIS DEEP REGRET THAT YOUR SON CHIEF WARRANT OFFICER JAMES H. ALEXANDER DIED IN JAPAN ON 7 FEBRUARY 1970 AS A RESULT OF THE INJURIES HE PREVIOUSLY RECEIVED IN ACTION. PLEASE ACCEPT MY DEEPEST SYMPATHY. MRS. DOROTHY ALEXANDER WILL FURNISH INSTRUCTIONS FOR THE RETURN OF YOUR LATE SON
KENNETH G. WICKHAM MAJOR GENERAL USA THE ADJUNTANT GENERAL DEPARTMENT OF THE ARMY WASHINGTON DC.

The Paddlin'

There is no story that is not true.
~ Chinua Achebe

Author’s Note: Some dialogue in this work of fiction uses profanity. While I do not condone the use of profanity, its use was necessary to paint an accurate picture of selected characters. Those offended by this type of language should not read on…

On a December day in 1978, the day before Christmas break, Marco Manfredi walked into the Priest’s first period freshman Religion class just ahead of the bell. Glancing over, Marco could see the good Father, the Priest, at the front of the room, feet kicked up on the desk, reading the newspaper. This wasn’t unusual, and Marco was hoping the Priest would keep on reading, even after the bell rang because he had some work to do for his next class. Marco slipped into his desk, and looked up at the Father, waiting for class to start.

The Priest wore the traditional black garb and white collar of a Catholic man of the cloth…with one exception, that being the football shoes. Yes, at the school, and sometimes even when he held Mass, the Priest wore white Adidas Star football shoes with black stripes. Some of the guys got a kick out of it, but not many kids openly busted on the Priest. If you got caught doing that, you were sure to get a slap across the back of the head and a one-way ticket to Hell.

So, why did the Priest wear football cleats? Well, they were our team’s game shoes, and the Priest was the team Chaplin. However, the quiet consensus was that the Priest had as much reverence for the Coach as he did for the Almighty Himself. This always struck Marco and some of the boys as odd. The Coach was pretty much a brutal and savage guy, and he bred fear like a flash fire. That’s how he kept things under control, which seemed to clash with the whole peace, love, and agape that the Priest preached on those rare days when he was inclined to teach and live as a man of the cloth.

In fact, in the fall, Marco had read Of Mice and Men in his English class. He had joked with some of the guys that the Priest and the Coach were really kind of like George and Lenny. He put a good bit together, and he would crack the boys up on the bus home from school with his version of Of Men and Mieces.

“Coach is my friend. Coach, tell me more about the rabbits.”
“Goddamnit Father! I’m tired of fucking telling you fucking rabbit stories.”
“But Coach, I want to love them, and touch them, and pet them, and…”
“Shaddup, Father. Now go get me the church wine and a pouch of chew.”
“Ok Coach, ok Coach! Coach is my friend…”

That would usually get them yuckin’ it up on the bus, and Marco liked to make people laugh. He had a thing for impressions, and the chicks seem to dig it.
Sometimes, when they were together, it was fun to watch the Priest following the Coach around, and you could hear the Priest cursing, just like the Coach. He was definitely a secular wannabe, which was really somewhat sad. However, that really wasn’t Marco’s biggest concern at the moment. He had his mind set on the twenty-five terms that he had not yet looked up and defined for his next class.

When the bell rang, the Priest put his paper down and glared at the freshman over the thick round lenses of his John Lennon-style specs. He had a blonde bowl haircut that would have made Oliver Cromwell proud, and he always frowned before he talked.

“I’m not teaching today. Sit down, shut up and do something.”
Finally, in a Religion class, no less, God answered one of Marco’s prayers. He now had time to get his World Cultures homework done for second period.

“Thank you sweet Lord!” Marco muttered. He tapped Michael Murray on the shoulder. “Hey, man. Can I borrow a pencil?”

Marco buried his head, hunched over the textbook and study questions, and put his mind to work. If he could just get through this day, the rest of the week was gravy. Tomorrow was a half day, and after the school Mass, Christmas break began. The word was that after Mass, one of the girls from the junior class was having a big party at her Gran’s house over in Shenandoah. Granny was off to New York for the holidays, and her doting granddaughter was watching after Granny’s parrot.

Michael Murray started a deep, hushed conversation with Debbi Sweeny who was sitting next to him. They were talking about the party. Marco was soon lost in World Cultures. Abruptly, the voice of a pissed-off Priest drew Marco’s attention. It was directed at him.

“Manfredi, I thought I told you to shut up and do something.”
“Father, I’m not talking! I’m doing my homework for next period.”
“Don’t tell me what I hear and don’t hear Manfredi, just shut up and do something.”
This was a losing battle, and Marco answered with a respectful “Yes Father” and went back to work. The clock was ticking. Lost in a fog of definitions and terms from ancient Mesopotamia, Marco was soon back in his groove, and it looked as if he might actually get this homework done for the next class.

For a second time, Marco was pulled back by the sound of the Priest’s voice.
“Manfredi, are you deaf or what? What the hell’s wrong with you?”
In this reply, Marco got a bit more defensive and angry in his response to the Priest.
“Father, it’s not me! I’m not talkin’! I’m working on something.” at the same time holding his homework paper up and waving and rattling it, probably a bit more forceful than necessary, it in the air “Look Father!”

“Are you saying I don’t hear you talkin’, Marco?”
“Father, I’m sayin’ it’s not me you hear talking’, it’s them!” Marco pointed to Michael and Debbi in front of him. Normally, he didn’t sell out anyone, but this was getting ridiculous.

The Priest glared at Marco for a good ten seconds, but the glint of the ancient lighting in the classroom made his eyes invisible and hard to read. Marco glared back, perhaps with too much defiance. Finally, the Priest buried his face back behind the paper again, murmuring something that Marco couldn’t hear. Marco cast a glance to the big clock next to the crucifix on the front wall. He had twenty minutes left and fifteen more terms to define.

“Cuneiform” he muttered underneath his breath and started back to leafing through the pages of the text to find the definition.

With about ten minutes left in class, there was a final exchange. However, this time, the Priest jumped up from his chair to deliver some fire and brimstone.

“Dammit the hell, Manfredi! You’re a damn hard head, aren’t you?” Marco stared in shock (and it wasn’t because of the language) at the Priest. The Priest glared at Marco one last time and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

The class erupted.
“Damn Marco, what did you do?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Where’s he going?”
“Do we have any homework?”
“Hey, did you hear about the big party in Frackville after Mass tomorrow?”
“It’s not in Frackville, moron. It’s in Shenandoah.”
“Hey, did anyone do the World Cultures homework?”

Marco didn’t understand what the deal was with the Padre, but he wasn’t going to worry about it now. Only two definitions left.

The Priest never returned to class…

Marco took the long way around to his locker between classes. He was trying to avoid Esther, his crazy ex-girlfriend. She was his first high school steady, but he’d broken up with her months ago. Since then, she’d left him a death note in his locker. She always carried a blade in her purse, and she’d vowed to cut him at the first opportunity. When he did see her in the halls, she would start to reach into the purse. She was from Girardville, and he should have known better. They were all crazy over in Gville.

Marco reached his locker uncut and unmolested; he tossed the Religion book to the bottom, and then jogged up the back stairs, slipping into Mr. McGuire’s Western Civs class just before the bell rang. He wound his way through the rows to his seat. First row, last seat. It was the perfect location for daydreaming, and seats hadn’t been changed since they were first assigned back in September. It was winter now, of course, and the view out of the large windows was spectacular. The first real snow of that year covered the landscape, and Marco could see far across the valley, and up the gentle slope of Broad Mountain. Almost every day since school started, Marco spent a large part of World Cultures lost in la-la land while McGuire waxed and waned about the Sumerians and Cuneiform, the Egyptians, the Greeks and Romans, and a host of other ancient civilizations.

The bell rang, but McGuire wasn’t yet in class. Marco looked around. It was a typical day in second period. Pam Shea sat at the front, taking aspirins in a lame attempt to make herself sick so she could go home. The guy in front of Marco was copying the homework of the girl in front of him, and everyone else was talking. Someone on the other side of the room asked “Where’s McGuire?” Marco wondered that himself as he browsed through the terms that he had hastily defined in the Priest’s class, crossing all t’s and dotting all i’s. Finally, Mr. McGuire appeared at the door and called the class to attention.

“Quiet down!” He glared at the class, his bushy grey eyebrows drawn in a stern line across his forehead. A hush quickly fell over twenty-five freshman. He cleared his throat.

“Mr. Marco Manfredi. I have a message for you.”
Instantly, Marco’s stomach felt funny, and his spider sense began tingling. In a very dramatic fashion, one exclusively inherent to teachers of history, McGuire strolled across the room carefully enunciating his words.

“Please… report…immediately… to… the Coach’s office.” He looked at Marco, Marco looked back at McGuire, and then he noticed everyone looking at him. Nobody said a thing. Nobody had to say a thing; everybody knew…this wasn’t good.

Slowly, Marco made his way through the mingled desks, his mind running a mile a minute. Walking into the hall, he heard Mr. McGuire pulling the door shut and beginning his daily drone. “All right class, take out your definitions and turn to page...”

Marco walked down the stairs and then outside into the December cold. He wracked his brain, wondering what the deal was. The Coach had been riding him hard since football season finished. Coach knew that Marco was pissed because Coach had not “permitted” him to play freshman basketball. Rather, the Coach thought Marco’s time would be better-spent pumping iron in the weight room. Despite what you wanted to do, at Bishop McShea, in December of 1978, you did what the Coach told you to do, or you paid. On top of that, someone, an old player probably, had told the Coach that Marco was ripped at a keg party up at one of the strippin’ pits two weeks ago. Well, he was ripped, there was no denying that, but Marco thought it was wrong to single him out. Everybody else was drinking too, including most of his teammates, and a good chunk of the student body of McShea High. Either way, it was just another excuse for Coach to bust Marco’s balls, and Coach had warned Marco recently to “get your shit together” if he wanted to play football for the Coach and McShea High.

The wind bit into Marco’s exposed skin, and he pulled the sleeves down on his navy blue school sweater. Following the path from the school to field house, Marco walked into the warm gym. It was empty and dark; his footfalls echoed as he walked across the hardwood floors to the door that led downstairs into Coach’s small, secluded office in the locker room.

The moment Marco walked through the door he knew he was screwed. The Coach’s voice boomed.

“Manfredi! Get your ass in here. We’ve been waiting for you!”
There they both sat, the Priest and the Coach, feet kicked up on Coach’s desk, each wearing white Adidas Star football shoes. Both smiled at Marco, and he quickly realized this situation had the potential to get very ugly. However, even as Marco began to consider how bad this scene could turn out for him, he was still, in that far away part of his mind that views images objectively, amused at the picture before him. It really was a surreal scene. There was the Coach, sitting in the anointed robes of his profession, gray sweats and a white “McShea PE” t-shirt emblazed with blue letters, a huge chew grinding in his mouth, tobacco juice running down his chin, staining his biker-style goatee. And of course, the Priest, like coach, a fat wad of chew in his mouth. A dirty brass spittoon sat on the cluttered desk between them. The Coach spoke again. It was time for the game to begin.

“So, Marco, the Padre here tells me you’ve been dickin’ around in religion class. What’s your fuckin’ problem Manfredi? This is a fuckin’ Catlic’ school. We can’t have you being a damn jackass in Religion class. That's bullshit, son.”

Marco tried to mount a defense, but it was futile.
“But Coach, I didn’t do anything, I swear…”

He cut Marco off with a raised had, and an abrupt “Bullshit!” Juice and spit spewed from his mouth; he slammed his fist on the desk and his voice he grew louder and louder. “Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit! The last “bullshit” echoed in the small locker room when the Coach finished roaring. Then he sat back down, put his feet back up on the desk, spit out some juice into the spittoon, and continued in a taunting tone.

“Marco, are you tellin’ me that the Padre here, a man of the cloth, anointed by Jesus H. Christ himself, is lying to me? Is that what you’re tellin’ me? Is that? Is that what you’re sayin’? This man of God is lyin’? That’s what you’re sayin’. Is that what you think he’s saying Padre?”

For the first time, the Priest spoke up.
“Yeah..I think that’s what he’s saying.”

Marco locked eyes with the priest, and his contempt for this servant of God certainly showed on his face like words written on a giant billboard.

“I hate this bastard…this prick…I fucking hate him.” Sinful thoughts spewed through Marco’s mind. Disillusionment danced in his head, and at that moment, he lost faith in the Church. His brain worked overtime. “Why would he lie? Why? What did the Priest prove by lying?” There would be more questions later. One more thought…”To Hell with the Church. I’m done.”

The Coach smiled. That sick bastard was enjoying this, and the party was just getting started. Marco could see tiny pieces of tobacco in his teeth. Now Marco began to get scared.

“Manfredi, I told you a week ago to get your shit together, and you just thought I was shootin’ the shit, didn’t ya?”
“No Coach, I didn’t. I’m trying.”
“Well then, what’s this bullshit all about? Did you think I was blowin’ smoke up your ass, son? Did you?”
“No Coach, I didn’t.”
“Well, I’m gonna tell you what, Marco, I’m not going to paddle you. I’m gonna let the Padre here deliver your punishment. Maybe this is your lucky day.” He started laughing, a diabolical, “He, he, he…” The Padre, just like his secular idol, joined in with laughter. Fucking George and Lenny.

The Coach rose from his chair, and he reached for the large paddle with holes in it that hung amid the trophies, plaques, and framed certificates on the wall behind his desk.

Marco thought, “Maybe he’s right. Maybe it is my lucky day? The Priest didn’t look like an incredibly strong man, and the dude was 150 lbs or so, soaking wet. As far as Marco knew, the Priest wasn’t in great shape either. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad?

The Coach handed the paddle to the priest and pointed to a line taped on the tile locker room floor.

“Go head Marco, grab your ankles. It’s time for your penance.” They both yucked it up at the reference to one of the seven sacraments.

Marco grabbed his ankles and looked through his legs. The last thing he saw as he braced for impact was the Priest’s white Adidas Star football shoes settling into position behind him. Marco closed his eyes…

…The force of the blow lurched Marco forward, and the sting was immediate.
So was the Coach’s coaching. He jumped from the chair. He loved this.

“No, no, no Padre! You have to keep your hips square and follow through, just like you’re hitting a tee shot. Square your hips, square’em! Try it again, Manfredi won’t mind. You don’t mind, do you, son?”

“No Coach.” The pain was growing, but when coach pointed, Marco moved again to the line on the floor. They were not going to break him.

“Now go ahead Padre, remember, square your hips and follow through. Again, the white shoes stepped up, and Marco braced…

The second blow was much harder than the first, and the sound of the paddle connecting with Marco’s ass popped like a .22 caliber pistol shot. Marco could feel tears welling up as the pain screamed across his hindquarters. This time, the Priest knocked Marco even farther across the locker room.
Again, the Coach was up and coaching, feeling it necessary to critique the Priest’s style and form.

“Atta boy Padre, much better! But, look, you still pulled up a bit, try it again and follow through. Remember, square up and follow through. Assume the position Manfredi, we’re going to get this right.”

Anger, pain, sadness and frustration all welled inside of Marco simultaneously. This was not fair, this was wrong. Marco now knew these two sick bastards set him up, and they were enjoying this sadistic ceremony. Even worse, one of them was a Priest. It was so wrong. He tried badly to keep himself together, but he could feel his internal stitches pulling apart at the seam. He was very close to losing his shit. Tears ran down his face now, and the pain was almost unbearable; he was wrong about the Priest. He was stronger than he looked, but he wasn’t going to let either of them think they’d won. In an act of defiance, and without being told, Marco stepped to the line and assumed the position.

The final blow from the Priest knocked Marco to his knees, and pain seared and erupted through him. It was stinging and burning, and Marco leaned his head onto the cold tiled floor. There was silence for just a second, and then Marco heard the Coach’s raspy voice slicing through his waves of agony.

“Goddammit Padre! That sucked. You’re swingin’ like a Goddam frickin’ pussy. Gimme that fucking paddle and let me show you how to do it. Jesus H. Christ, Padre. Get your ass off the floor, Marco.” Marco moved slowly, too slowly. The next thing he felt was the Coach’s foot kicking him in the ass.

“I said…get your ass off that fucking floor, toe that fucking line and assume the position…now, you little prick!”

Marco limped to the line and bent over. All his movements, now, were filled with pain. He briefly opened his eyes in time to see the spit stained white Adidas Star football shoes stepping up, the raising up and down, settling finally, into a comfortable stance, and then Marco closed his eyes as the Coach’s toes pointed slightly inward.

This time, like the blast from a shotgun, the sound of the paddle connecting with Marco filled the small room, and then lingered in the air. The mighty force of the blow drove Marco into the lockers, and the smash of the cold metal against his face broke his forward motion. Marco slide down the lockers and then crumbled to the floor, heaving sobs now, like a baby. His whole body hurt now, and tears, mingled with blood from the cuts to his face and head from the lockers, fell to the floor in rivulets. Marco heaved and wept. It was more than the pain, now, that made him cry. It was the degradation, the humiliation, the corruption of trust, and the pure evil of the whole ugly scene, the aberration of faith, and ultimately a final loss of innocence, which drove him to honest, real and raw despair. Marco bawled and moaned, crying, as he had never cried before…and he couldn’t stop.

The Coach and the Priest started out the door and up the steps to the gym. The Coach stopped, turned and barked at Marco.
“Get your shit together. You have fifteen minutes to get to class. If you’re late, I see your ass right back here. Don’t ever lie to a man of the fucking cloth, you fucking pussy…and keep your mouth shut in Goddam Religion class.” The Priest peered over the Coach’s shoulder, taking the scene in. Marco could barely see either of them.

The door closed and Marco could hear them laughing as they walked up the stairs. Things got dark and foggy and Marco closed his eyes.

Time passed, and with the pain, Marco wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating or dreaming there on the cold tile. A searing throb resonated from his ass up his back and down his legs.

“This must be what it feels like when you’re shot.” His nerves continued screaming, and parts of his body twitched like he’d been shocked. “Maybe this is what it felt like to be electrocuted?” Shot and zapped. Two for the price of one…who said a Catholic education was a bad investment? You get two for the price of one.

Slowly, Marco rose to his knees, taught himself to walk again, and slowly he moved up the stairs. The pain was brutal. As before, the gym was empty, and as Marco loped across the floor, through the shadows of the darkened gym, he saw the clock on the opposite wall. It was 11:36. Marco began to reconstruct the morning in his mind, like you do the day after a big ripper, when the fog of alcohol makes the night before seem like a bad dream. Bits and pieces come back to you, and you never like what you remember. Marco spoke aloud to no one.

“Let’s see…homeroom, 8:30-9:00, Religion, 9:05-9:50, World Cultures, 9:55…Maybe I did pass out? Biology now…screw that, I’m not going. Lunch in 20 minutes.” Marco didn’t know where the Coach and the Priest disappeared to, but he had no desire to see either of them again today. He was going to lay low till lunch. He made his way out the double doors of the gym into the bright sunlight. The reflection blinded him for a moment, his body oblivious now to the cold, and slowly, he crossed the path back to school and headed for his locker.

As the freshman class bounced into the lunchroom, Marco leaned against the back wall in the corner, behind a table, eating his sandwich, trying to practice his cooliosis. Someone shouted.
“Holy Christ! It’s Marco!

There was a mad mob rush. Word had spread around school during his absence and rumors abounded. Trying to figure out how he would handle this situation, he realized, at that exact moment in life that he could create his own legend…rock star status style. Quickly, wide-eyed freshmen, including wide-eyed freshmen girls, surrounded Marco. Yes, wide-eyed freshmen girls looking at Marco with their dreamy wide-eyed freshman eyes.
“Yesssssss…”
Classmates began firing questions in a roar. Reverently, he put down his egg salad sandwich, and raised his hand. The crowd hushed, and Marco commenced to telling his tale of the face off with the two-headed, fire-breathing dragon.

At the end of that day, in the soft afterglow of reflection, Marco Manfredi realized he’d learned a few important lessons. First off, it doesn’t matter if you like it or not, Life really isn’t fair, and even if you’re innocent, you can still be found guilty. When it comes right down to it, except for your real friends, you can’t trust anybody, especially the Church. That, and, as you travel through life, you will cross paths with people who are just plain mean. Mean. There’s no explanation for it, there’s no rhyme or reason to it, it’s just the way they are, and that sucks for the rest of us who are not. Yeah, life wasn’t fair, but it is made up of the stuff that makes for a good story, and a good story can take you far in life. Marco embraced the moment.

“So, the Coach takes the paddle…he stands up slowly…and bangs it against the wall three times, like a giant, and he says…Manfredi! Assume the position…”

Ghost Story

Ghost Story

I sat across the old oak dining room table from Uncle John, the remains of breakfast the only witness to our uncomfortable silence. It was July 27th, 1981, my father’s birthday. Coincidently, there I was sitting in the farmhouse where he grew up, at the table where he used to eat, on an early morning, with his younger brother, who had never really recovered from the death of his older brother, whom he had so greatly admired. We didn’t talk about dad’s birthday; we didn’t talk about his life. We really didn’t talk at all.

The fact that I was his brother’s son, I know now, as well as having me hanging around the farm for a month, was probably something that made him very uneasy and uncomfortable. If he had to deal with me, that meant he had to deal with his brother’s death, and ultimately that would force him to think about his own mortality. For many years, the bottle was both his friend and his foe. Years after this summer day, he did get the monkey off his back. Sadly, many days of drinking, depression, and self-abuse had worn his body down, and he died about twelve years later. However, that’s another story.

In this story, on this day, Uncle John and I did that dance that we had done since I first started coming to Indiana for the summer ten years before.
I have no doubt that he loved me, and he cared deeply for me, but I also know that the tangible reminder of his departed older brother made him think about things he would rather not dwell on. But, there we were.

At the time, I was sixteen and at the ideal height and weight I wish I could have carried for the rest of my life. In college, and in later, I often rode the poundage pendulum a dozen times or more from 295 to 250 lbs back and forth. But on that particular day I stood a strong 6-3, 230 lbs. I could wrestle a bull and I could run like a gazelle. When I wore football pads and helmet, I was a powerful force, and I could smash-mouth with anyone.

From behind the Indianapolis Times, Uncle John’s voice broke the awkward silence, and we began another dance.

“Well, Robbie, what position are you going to play in football this year?”

“Linebacker”

I lied. I was really going to be a defensive end, but I thought telling him I was going to be a LB would impress him. He lowered the paper and looked me over.

“Well, the way you’re built, I would think the coach would play you at defensive end.”

“Maybe I’ll get some reps there too, I don’t know just yet…” My voice trailed off. What a dumb ass I was. I wanted Uncle John, the man closest to my father, to be impressed with my athletic prowess. I thought maybe telling him I was a budding linebacker would do the trick. I should have just told the truth.

I excused myself and got up from the table, internally embarrassed, and headed out the door into the bright day. Indiana is a lush, beautiful state, and the sounds, smells, and memories made me feel glad to be alive. It was very different from my home, carved out in the Coal Regions of Pennsylvania. I loved my visits to the farm each summer, and the explorations and adventures during my time there helped forge a large part of the mettle from which I was cast.

I lopped out into the barnyard and began to go through the ritual of my stretching exercises. I was going to try to run a few miles—at least two, and then my plan was to lounge the rest of the day reading, swimming, and just generally being a “Farm Bum” with no real pressing responsibilities at that moment of my life.

However, with the promise of that sort of lazy day before me, I was motivated to get my workout done, thus justifying my slothfulness. I progressed through my stretching, peeled off my shirt, and pounced onto the gravel and tar road. Springing up and down in the shade of the huge elm tree like a boxer, I eyed the road that stretched out across the countryside. With the round bell ringing in my ears, off I started, stepping into the heat and light, and forward into what would prove to be one of the strangest days of my life.

By the time I finished my run, the tar was beginning to bubble and pop when my jogging shoes pounded the road. July in Indiana could be very hot, and today was shaping up to be a scorcher. I couldn’t wait to get into the pool after my run, and that promise of the cool welcoming water surged me up the slight rise in the road that ended at the driveway of the farm house.

Grandma had gone up to Lebanon for a few days to take care of Aunt Maude. Aunt Maud was, according to family legend, quick as a cat and crazy as a loon. She was one of the ancient Pratt’s, a branch of my Grandma’s family who lived long and got loonier the longer they lived.

Aunt Maude was in her nineties at that time, and Grandma and several other relatives took turns caring for her up at the big, old house with the gingerbread trim in Lebanon, Indiana. I remember, back when I was younger, how we would go up to the house to visit. Aunt Jess, Maude’s younger sister, lived with her at the time. We, my cousin, and me, were always warned each time we went to visit, not to ‘disturb’ Aunt Maud. The thing was we never really saw her, so how could we disturb her? Regardless, her creepy legend grew with each summer, and she eventually evolved, in our young, impressionable minds, into a menacing specter—dark and creepy, and quick like lightning, with an appetite for gullible children. Later in life, after I read To Kill a Mockingbird, I thought Aunt Maude and Boo Radley were one in the same. Either way…she freaked us out, and was the source of many ghost stories that we told late at night for years now.

Once, when I was about eleven or twelve, I think I actually caught a glimpse of her. We were up to the house on a visit, and my cousin and I had been playing hard at the park on the corner. I was thirsty, so I walked back to the big house alone, and headed into the kitchen for a glass of milk. As I stuck my head deep in the old fridge inspecting the odd assortment of contents that you only find in the fridges of the elderly, I had a strange sensation that I was being watched. In a scared shitless spasm, I spun around quickly, seeking the source of the eerie feeling. I heard a rustle of cotton and saw what I thought, was a quick wisp of a blue smock-like garment, flashing quicker than the pop of a paparazzi bulb. It all happened so swiftly, I began to question if I had really seen something or not. I raced back to the park where my cousin, Andrea, sat with her legs swinging over the bridge that crossed the creek. She was quick to assure me that I had indeed seen her. The “sighting” provided even more fodder for the folklore of Aunt Maude, and the whole thing gave me the heebie-jeebies. Now, at the age of sixteen, I could decline to visit Aunt Maude with Grandma, and wanted to even more since Grandma planned to spend a few nights there.

Overall, it promised to be a quiet day on the farm. My cousin, Andrea, three months my elder, was at a band camp for the week. My uncle John had disappeared into his shop, and would probably stay there working on his 67 Vette until he left for the second shift at Allison Turbine in Indy. Most nights, after work, he would stop at the Am Vets, just across from the motor speedway, and stay there drinking until wee hours of the morning. Actually, it was unusual to see him in the morning as I had that day.

Aunt Immy and my little cousin Johnny had left first thing that morning for an overnight visit with uncle Zeke, so for that day anyway, I was king of all 70 acres of the Alexander fiefdom. It was good to be king…

I stretched out on my back in the tightly trimmed grass of the barnyard. I was soaked with sweat, but feeling good and very much alive. A few puffy clouds drifted overhead, and I could hear the hum of insects, far away tractors, and a distant dog bark or two. Life was good.

The rest of the day went pretty much as I had planned, I swam in the pool for a while, and then I spent a few hours reading. After a late lunch, I crashed on Uncle John’s couch. A dream I didn’t remember woke me up, and I realized I slept much longer than I planned. It was getting towards evening now. Starving, I grabbed a few pieces of cold fried chicken from the fridge, and began gnawing on a drumstick while I strolled outside.

Fireflies were just warming up their glows across the fields, and it had turned cooler. I decided to walk over to Grandma’s. She had a lot of neat stuff crammed in her trailer, and I went through the open back door and settled into her small, comfortable living room. Looking for something to do, my eyes fell on the reel-to-reel tape deck and ancient stereo that my Dad had bought in Korea around 1962-63. An Army man, my dad had been stationed there after my parents were married.

There were stacks and stacks of boxes of tapes, thin reels of recorded music, mostly classics. I picked out a reel, Beethoven, cued it up, and started the music while I began to sift randomly through all the recorded tapes. There were about two hundred boxes, all meticulously documented by Grandma or Aunt Ann, which included the artist, the title, and year recorded. I’d started going though some of tapes last summer, enough to learn how to use the system, but then I’d gotten lured out by my cousin to chase bugs and butterflies for her 4H project, and never returned to the task before my visit ended.

Now, a year later, somewhere, in the middle of the stack, I found a box labeled with Grandma’s handwriting. It read, “Recording of Jim explaining how to use the stereo system, 1963?” My heart skipped a beat.

You see, I really didn’t know my dad, and I didn’t really remember him either. He died in Vietnam in 1970, just after I turned six. Sometime in 1967 would have been the last time I laid eyes on him. That was also the same year my parents divorced after seven years of marriage. From there, he went to Texas as an instructor at Ft. Wolters, remarried, and eventually returned to Vietnam for a second tour.

The only “memory” I had, and to this date I’m not sure if it was a memory or just a dream, was of him, there at the farm in Indiana, standing across the gravel road from me. He seemed tall and broad, and he wore his Army khaki uniform with short sleeves. He was saying my name, and beckoning to me as if to cross the gravel and come to him.

“Wow! I can’t believe this! I said aloud to no one. With slightly trembling fingers, I opened the box to find a folded white piece of paper with Grandma’s handwriting on it, sitting on top of thin reel of IBM magnetic tape. I pulled out the note and read it.

“This tape has a recording of Jim reading instructions on
how to work some of the features of the stereo system.
I think, this was recorded sometime around 63 when he
brought the system back from Korea, where he bought
it while he was stationed there. I remember him telling
me about what a good deal he got on it because the Asians
were making all of the best new electronic equipment. 1971”

I doubt the box was opened at all in the ten years since Grandma had placed that note in it. Cutting off the reel-to-reel deck off, I rewound the tape that was playing, and pulled if off the machine. Gingerly, I began to cue up the thin, fragile tape from the box.

I couldn’t believe that, if this tape even worked, I was actually about to hear my dad’s voice. This was heavy stuff for me. Growing up over the ten years since his death, I went through phases, thinking about him every so often, especially when I was younger. Even now, I had lots of questions, but nobody really wanted to talk about him or answer my inquiries…not my mom, not Grandma or Uncle John, no one. Most of the time, I just buried those thoughts. Still, I wondered what he was like as a person, how he looked in three dimensions when he moved, and what he sounded like, and so on. However, by the time I reached my teens, I didn’t really think too much on him…except when I was in Indiana, on the farm where he grew up, and where I was surrounded by pictures, memories, and folklore about his life. This was so crazy!

I took a deep breath, hoping that what was on the tape really was my dad, and then I turned the knob to “play”…

Some hissing and crackling filled the air, and then the hum of audio, the clearing of a throat, followed by a voice from the past filling the room.

“Now …what you have here… is a high Fi-del-i-TEE stereo syst’m.” The voice had just a touch of that high nasality sound, common to folks from that part of central Indiana. It almost sounded like Uncle John, yet it didn’t, he sounded different. I was mesmerized.

“If you want to increase the power level…for maximum wattage, then…you toggle this switch…the one that says “amp” and the red right light will come. If you want to play records, then toggle the…‘see-lect’ switch to…phone-o-graph, cue up the record, and drop the needle. Remember to power the high Fi-del-i-TEE stereo syst’m down when you are finished en’joyin’ your music.”

The whole recording lasted about thirty seconds from start to finish. Goose bumps raced over my body, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop. I rewound, cranked up the volume, and played it again, and again, and again, and again. I intently listened to every word as if my life depended on it, closing my eyes and trying to imagine him, there in the room with me, speaking the words repeatedly. I hung on each syllable, analyzing each word, time and time again as I replayed the tape, trying to get a feel for the pattern and rhythm of his speech. Eventually, I began to feel numb. It was as though I had been sitting there on the floor for hours, and I came out of my hypnotic trance.

As my head cleared, I tuned in to my surroundings for a moment. It was now dark. I stood up, stretching and walked down the hallway to the front door for some air. Along the way, I paused to look at the pictures of my dad hanging on the wall. One of my favorites was a collage that had an interesting mix. In it, there was a baby picture of him, then him at about five, then ten, then fifteen, and so on. It seemed they were all in about five year increments; the last one was a picture of his tombstone in Arlington National Cemetery. I leaned in a little and read the writing on the stone. I suddenly remembered that today, as indicated on the white granite, was July 27, his birthday. Today, had he lived, my Dad would have been 41.

Instead of going out, I continued into the west room of the trailer. There, on the shelves along a whole wall, were boxes and boxes of the family archives. They included pictures, slides, report cards, drawings, notes, letters, and a hundred other mementos that only mothers would save to mark the passing of time for their babies. Filled now with a burning desire to connect with my father, I began to tear into the boxes. I’d seen some of the pictures before, but there was a trove of things I’d never seen, and I fell once again into the world of my father, a strange world that I struggled to understand. On this night, I would find many pieces to a puzzle that I really didn’t understand, and I would also realize there were many, many pieces that were still missing.

Of particular interest to me was a stack of letters, maybe twenty or so, that my father had written to the family between 1958 and 1970. I poured over these as if they were sacred texts. They chronicled his Army career from private to Chief Warrant Officer. They were filled with wit, wonderful language, vivid descriptions, and a respect for life that kept things in perspective. He really was a skilled writer, and I recognized, for the first time in my own life, that maybe some of the things I did well or that came easily for me, like writing, might have come from his contribution to my existence. Included in this stack were two items that really blew me away and framed my thinking for many years to come.

The first was a letter written for him by a Red Cross worker from an Army hospital in Japan. Addressed to his mom, the tone was professional and reassuring. He explained that he couldn’t write himself because he’d lost his arm in an accident, but that he was feeling chipper and well and expected to make a full recovery. He noted that maybe now, he would be able to put Vietnam behind him and live out the rest of his days with his second wife, Dorothy, in Texas.

The other wasn’t a letter per se, but rather a Western Union telegraph from the Army informing my Grandma that her son had died on February 7th, 1970 in Japan from wounds he received in Vietnam on January 23rd, 1970. For the record, I turned six on January 11th of that year. I cried that night; I think, for the first time in my life, with a real understanding of loss. The magnitude of his death really blew me away. How, like a stone tossed into a pond, the ripples rolling out larger and larger, touching more and more people with each outward extension. I cried for myself. Finally, I came back to reality.

I had lost all track of time and place. The tiny alarm clock read almost 3 a.m., and I was exhausted, numb, and drained. A storm had blown in while I was lost in the letters, and I could hear the wind blowing and rain pelting the west side of the trailer like tiny pebbles. I closed my eyes to listen. A dense wave of fatigue swept over me, and I didn’t even feel like moving. I could have fallen asleep where I sat. I kicked off my Chuck Taylors, pulled off my sweaty shirt, cut out the light, and unwound myself on the old Army cot that Grandma kept in that room. My feet extended over the edge, but I didn’t care. I felt cozy. I shut my eyes and opened my ears; the pebbles pounded the wall, almost, but not quite like rain on a tin roof, the winds tousled tree branches, a deep sigh…then…sleep.

It was a voice, I think, that brought me out of deep slumber. I slowly opened my eyes, struggling to make sense of time and space. Did I hear something? A voice? I was aware of the dim light of early dawn softly illumining the room. Then, still heavy with slumber, my eyes began to shut slowly…and then I heard it. Clear as a bell. A voice…

“Rob-eeeee. Hey Robbie!”

My eyes popped open this time. Someone was calling my name. The voice came from outside, and it sort of sounded… like… Uncle John? I was tired and having problems processing. The room felt sort of… heavy, and I swung my feet onto the floor and rubbed my face trying to shake the lead feeling out of my head. I was awake now, and again, I heard the voice.

“Rob-eeeee. Robbie!” This time a bit louder than the last, and I thought for sure it was Uncle John. I eagerly pulled on my shirt, slipped my feet into my Chuck Taylor’s, and rushed out of the room and out the door onto the front porch.

It was just barely dawn, I think. The dew-laden grass was soggy from the night’s rain, and wisps of mist clashed then melted in the chill morning air. I didn’t see anyone, and it was quiet, save the hum of some insects. I looked across the driveway to the farmhouse; Uncle John’s car wasn’t in front of the house or in the garage.

“Robbie, come on boy.” The voice, this time like a command, came from the other side of a short windbreak running along an old section of fence, left over from when the barn lot held cattle back in the days. I stepped off the porch, walked through the mist and around the end of the windbreak. There, across the road, in the exact same photographic image from my old dream, or memory, or whatever it was…stood my father. A chill exploded across my body like a thousand needles…sense was unraveling there, right before my eyes. He spoke.

“Revelry Son, let’s get a move on! I don’t have a lot of time to be lollygagging around. Put some pep in your step, boy!” There was a smile on his face, but the tone of his voice, that same voice I’d heard for the first time the day before on fragile tape, held a sense of urgency. I was dizzy and lightheaded. I think I may have honestly been in shock.

I didn’t know what else to do, so I walked across the gravel drive way, reaching out my hand.

“D…d..dad?” I stammered as our hands met in a manly shake. His hand was cool, but it felt real and tangible.. He smiled.

“Come on boy, I don’t have all day. Let’s get a move on.” He put his arm around my shoulder. I was taller than he was, probably three or more inches, but I also noticed that we shared the same thick torso and broad chest and back. Unlike my long runners’ legs, his were thick and stocky, and his forearms, hands, and fingers were thick and strong. He looked powerful. He led me to the road, and we headed north. My mind was racing, but I didn’t know what to say.

“I am sure you are in shock, and none of this makes sense to you, Robbie. It may be years before any of this makes sense, but you’ll figure it out. You’re a smart boy. I know you think about me, and I know you have a lot of questions, and I know that later on in your life you will get some answers, but not all of them.” He paused and winked. “ How you doing, boy?

“Uhhh, Ok, I guess, Sir.”

He laughed loudly, and the sound filled the air and echoed through the fields. It was a hearty, good laugh, and I couldn’t help but smile. He rustled my hair, and it felt as if I was being mauled gently by a happy bear.

“Don’t call me Sir, son. That’s what I called my daddy. I think these are different circumstances.”

“What should I call you, then?” We stopped for a moment, he dropped his arm off my shoulder, and we stood face to face.

“Call me Dad.”

I smiled. “Ok Dad”. The word hung in the air. It felt strange rolling off my tongue. It wasn’t natural to me as the word was never really a part of my vocabulary. I said it again. “Dad.”

“That’s better, now let’s double time.” He continued down the road, and I fell into step beside him.

“I tried to lead a good life, Robbie, at least as good as I thought it could be. It wasn’t perfect, and I made mistakes. I hurt your mom, and I hurt other people, and I have to deal with the pain that I caused others, but I never meant to do anyone any harm, you know? We all make mistakes. Understand?”

I nodded my head.

“Life doesn’t always work out like you want it to, but you try the best you can to do the right thing. Sometimes, the right thing that you do isn’t the thing that everyone else would do. Some folks call those decisions “selfish”, but sometimes we have to make selfish decisions. You’ll figure that out when you grow up, and remember that sometimes you have to do what’s right for you, no matter what the rest of the world thinks. Are you getting any of this?”

I was, kinda-sorta getting all of this. However, it was tough to digest everything as I was still, I think, honestly in shock on some level. After all, I was having a conversation with my father, and he had been dead for ten years now.

“Yes, Sir. I’m getting it.” He raised his eyebrows and face feigned anger. “I mean, yes, Dad.”

We had walked about a half-mile or so, down to the crossroads. It was a bit lighter now, but the mist and early morning fog still held a blanket over the rising sun. He stopped at the spot where the crossroads met.

“I gotta go, Robbie, and this is as far as you go.” He turned and looked me in the eye. There we stood, face to face, and he reached out and put one hand on my shoulder. “Son, I understand you’ve been playing football? Are you having fun?”

“Yes Sir, I mean Dad…I love it.”

“Well, you keep it up. It is going to take you to places you never thought you go, and it will teach you toughness and discipline. It took the Army to do that for me. Maybe you’ll get off a little easier, and maybe you’ll never have to go to war.” Dropping his hand off my shoulder, he offered it to me, and we shook.

“You take care now, Robbie. You hear me, Son? It was nice to meet you. Make me proud.” He turned and started down the road. There was a slight rise to the North, and then the road dipped off and wound its way down towards Jamestown. The mist and fog seemed heavier now.

“But Dad, wait…” I wanted to say something to him, but I didn’t know what to say. He stopped and winked. Smiling at me one last time, he offered his final words.

“You best get on back to bed now. A big ole boy like you needs his rest.”

He walked away, disappearing over the rise in the road and the mist hanging low off the ground. I stared in disbelief, and turned, looking back up to the road to the farm, and then back to him. He was gone.

I jolted upright from the Army cot. Bright sunshine filtered into the room through the blinds, and I looked at the clock. It was almost 9:30 a.m. My head was foggy, and I felt a little confused. I realized I had had a dream, or was it a nightmare? Either way, it was a trippy experience.

“Wow” I thought to myself, “that was crazy…and…so real!”

I fell back down into the cot with soft thud and closed my eyes, breathing deeply, and started to think about my experience, replaying it in my head. I’d never had a dream that seemed so real, or that I could recall with such vivid detail.

I laid my hand across my chest for a moment, thinking back to last night and trying to remember my last thoughts before sleep. Something didn’t feel right. I’d taken off my shirt, and…I’d taken off my shirt…and I’d taken off my sweaty shirt, and…

At that moment, I realized my arm was resting across my shirt-covered chest. Chills filled my body, and I opened my eyes. Looking down to my feet, I saw that I was wearing my Chuck Taylor’s, laced up, with wet, dewy, morning grass covering the worn black and white high-tops.

And Now, for Something REALLY Different

Welcome to the Big Blog faithful readers. Because one of the reasons I started The Big Blog was to spread my creative wings, I thought I would offer up something different for your consideration with this posting. Below, you will find three poems I recently pulled out of mothballs and tinkered with a bit. I hope you enjoy them. Feel free to comment—unless you don’t like them…just teasin’, of course. I had fun stretching my poetic wings for a while; I hope you have fun taking flight with me.

PS: Keep your eyes out for the Halloween Blog, “A Ghost Story”—coming soon to a Big Blog near you.

On Discovering Rocks

The whistle atop the coal breaker
Beckons the shanties to rise.
Slowly at first,
Like a dance rehearsed,
Dirty doors open.
Tired feet and sloped shoulders
Sag down the street
Of the little patch
Called Lost Crick.

Seamus takes his stock while
He waits for mules to
Drag him down to the darkness
For another day in dank depths:
Pick.
Shovel.
Dynamite.
Fuses.
A yellow canary in a cage,
And his lunch pail filled
With feeble fodder
For a hungry soul.

Here, in this hard land,
Shadows rule.
Black is the sky before dawn breaks,
Dark is the shaft that descends.
Black is the coal calling for release,
Dim is the sky when you return
For resurrection at the day's end.

Seamus digs in solitude
Lost in his temporary grave.
Coal crumbles from the vein,
And he fills his cart.
Toiling to meet today's tally,
For the mine boss will accept no less.

At lunch, he lounges
As the canary keeps company
With a chirp,
Strangely out of place
Deep in Mother's womb.
Leaning back,
Seamus lights his pipe
For a quick smoke before
He begins back breaking again.

The match light lumens
Something strange in the vein.
Seamus looks aloft.
The dark and the dram of rum
Must be playing tricks.
But still,
He rises for a closer look at
An anomaly in anthracite.
A smile crosses his coal-caked face,
And he begins to sing back to the canary
As he reaches for his pick.

The young mine boss
Stares strangely at Seamus.
The shift is not over,
Yet this miner has surfaced in sunlight.
Shamus tosses the trimmings of his
Past life--
Pick,
Shovel,
Dynamite,
Fuses,
--Down at the feet of the Boss.
He opens the cage,
Kisses the Canary,
And sets him free,
While the Boss looks on
With furrowed brow.

Seamus looks the young Boss
Square in the eye, and cracks
A wily, coal-caked smile.
Speaking, then,
With the air of a rich man:
“I'm done with you, Lad.”


Fleece and Fatality

The lorry jockey tosses back
The dregs of his last pint.
Upwards, he casts an unsteady glance
At the blurry clock on the wall.
At midnight,
He could see the clock clearly,
When he bellied up to the bar
For just one beer.
--It had been a long week.

The lorry jockey squints
And belches a behemoth burp.
The clock isn't clear any longer
But he thinks it says five a.m.
At five after five,
He rises slowly from his stool
And steadies himself on the bar
For one short moment.
--It will be a long ride home.

The lorry jockey finds fog
Shrouding his truck at dawn.
Upwards, he climbs into the cab
And brings the engine to life.
At eight after five,
He shifts into gear and
Forward he moves.
--It is bad to drive drunk and tired.

The farmer shoos his sheep
Out of their pen just after dawn.
His Border Collie chases
And bids them with barks.
At fifteen after five,
They begin to cross the road
Moving to greener pastures
Forward the sheep move
--The sheering time is nigh.

The lorry driver lunges
Up and down unsteady roads
Of rolling countryside.
At seventeen after five,
Asleep at the wheel,
He rumbles round a turn.
Seeking a final resting place,
His lorry finds the flock.
--Fleece and fatality fill the air.


Symposium

Denizens of the dark
Dance with solemn decorum,
Into a makeshift meeting hall.
They gather not on a lark
But congregate with purpose of forum
Like lovers at a renaissance ball.

From all four corners they arrive
Sporting the finest nocturnal threads,
And seize seats at the round table.
These select symbolize those still alive
Heads bow for the myriad dead
Silence is shrouded in a coat of sable.

“Hear ye, hear ye” the crier calls
When the moment of silence has passed,
“We must address the task at hand.”
A murmur mumbles in the makeshift hall
In earnest the assembly begins at last,
For this is no lovers’ renaissance ball.

The velvet viscount stands to speak
Rising rigidly on noble toes,
He commands the attendees’ attention.
“Talk is for lovers, for the whiny and weak,
Too long have we loitered in repose!”
Voices affirm and rise in raucous ascension.

The Scarlet Lord leisurely chimes
His way into this curious conversation;
His voice so small, yet appealing.
“Is violence a retort to these crimes?
Are we not a civilized nation?”
His silky syllables seep with strong feelings.

“Lord Scarlet do you tender a solution?”
Queries the sergeant at arms,
“For the daybreak is close at hand.”
“Yes,” says the scarlet, “But not revolution;
“Violence does naught but harm,
And brings bloodshed to our simple land.”

The army ant roars to life
His nature can endure no longer.
This talk of peace makes him ill.
“There is only tranquility through strife;
Though some may call me a war monger,
I would rather kill than be killed!”

The Cockroach, the June bug
And the Mantis pray
For guidance from spirits divine.
A cry goes up from brother Slug
For he never dreamed of the day,
When his brethren’s reason declined.

Near dawn’s first light
The final decision was made
None knew of the ultimate effect.
The army ant let the troops to the fight
When the orange truck parked in the glade,
The battle cry resounded—death to Terminex!

Fang

Vampire stories are in these days…
While youth is the time of many joyous and free-roaming adventures, it is also a period marked by great stupidity. Let’s face it, though we still are brainless well into adulthood, most of us stumbled through some of our biggest foul-ups, oh, somewhere between the ages of eight to eighteen, with room for give and take on each side. As kids, we did stupid stuff for a range of reasons and feelings that we may not have completely understood. Often, it was to call attention to ourselves, sometimes to impress others—for me, it was frequently about a girl as I got into my teens. Maybe our stupidity was driven by a subconscious attempt to find ourselves, and define who we were and what we fancied we wanted to be when we “grew up”. Collectively, our stupidity flowed from a combination of all those things and many, many more. Mostly though, we did stupid stuff just because we were stupid kids, and stupid kids do stupid stuff.

Personally, I have a rather long list of stupid things I did growing up. However, my first caper…as remember it…the one that launched me on my path to stupidity stardom, was when I escaped from the baby sitter at the ripe age of four. Thankfully, I was too young to know how stupid my escape really was, but I learned quickly. The sitter called my mom and then the police, who issued an APB. In the end, it would have been much better for the coppers to find me first. When she got her hands on me, my mom, the queen lioness, made the police look like pussycats. She wore my young tail out that day.

Then, there was the time Mike C. and I, while playing with matches, lit a garbage dump on fire in Frackville. We didn’t know much about Smokey the Bear at that time.
Mike and I were both around seven or eight and just learning how much fun it was to play with fire. However, while we quickly became steeped in the art of burning stuff, we really didn’t have much practice with how to extinguish burning stuff. Engrossed in the hypnotic enchantment of neophyte pyromania, we were grossly unaware we had set the dump on fire until I felt some heat at my back and turned around. What I saw started one of those conversations in your life that you never forget, even if you were only seven.
“Jeeze, Mike! That’s a big fire! What should we do? What should we do? Oh man!” I looked frantically at Mike. Without hesitation, he blurted his answer...
“Throw garbage on it! Throw garbage on it! Cover the flames!”
“OK!” It sounded good at the time, so I went with it. What the hell? I was seven.
We franticly tossed and kicked more garbage onto the garbage already on fire. Strangely, the flames and the heat grew. Always the Socratic type, even back then, I asked Mike more questions.
“Mikey, what should we do now? It’s getting bigger! The fire is getting bigger! What should we do?” The heat was more intense now, and the silence filled with pops and crackles of burning trash.
Again, Mike blurted an answer instantly. He was quick like that.
“Run!” he hollered, and he took off.
It sounded good to me at the time, so I lit out after him.

We were at the top of town, and the dump was in the woods behind the little league field at the north end of town, about thirty or forty yards down the hill on the side of Broad Mountain. We scrambled up the bank, a thick plume of black smoke rising behind us. As we dashed across the field, we could see and hear the neighbors on High St., the last street in town, out on their porches, yelling, gesturing; sounds crashed together, and amid the din, I heard the wail of sirens in the distance. I remember thinking, “maybe no one will recognize us” even though we pretty much knew every family in a three-block radius. We reached High Street, cut down the alley, and then split into our back yards, both heading into our respective houses to hide. Just before ducking in the door, I glanced back over my shoulder to see smoke floating hundreds of feet in the sky. Folks for miles around could easily see that a fire was burning on the side of the mountain up in Frackville. After the cops visited the house, no doubt pointed my way by dozens of ticked-off neighbors, my mom and stepdad lit a fire in my tail. I only thought I’d gotten the beating of my life out of the way when I was four. If I remember correctly, Mickey didn’t fare much better with his folks. I was standing on the front porch after my beating, and I could hear him wailing from across the alley while his lickin’ was delivered.

Later, as I moved through adolescent years, my faux pas continued. The short list, let’s see…I ran away from home, got caught egging on Mischief Night, and stole a motorcycle, then a car. I also was caught crawling into a girl’s second story window, hauled home for hitting cars with snowballs, and the occasional fight down in the empty lot. Then there was the time I gave the Stork twenty bucks on a New York City street because he swore he was “positive” he knew where the pea was in the shell game that a dude was running on the corner (he didn’t know). In addition, I teetered at the brink of expulsion twice in high school. Once, because I got my ear pierced at a Saturday night party with the intent to take out the earring the next day; however, since all the girls were diggin’ the look, and I was diggin’ it that they were digging it, I decided to leave it in. However, my fashion sense clashed with the 1981 dress code for Catholic schools. Once word of my “bodily mutilation” reached the ears of the pious administration on Monday morning, I had to stand tall before the man.

Shortly after word got around school (it only took until the end of 1st period), I was called to the office for a sit down with the principal. The whole matter didn’t take very long. I was given two choices, take the earring out and remain at CBHS, or keep it in, get expelled, and go to North Schuylkill H.S, the local public school. I pretended to think about it for a moment, but I knew that among other consequences, my mom would murder me, so I quickly caved and took the earring out. That, plus I knew I needed my classical Catholic education to survive in the heathen world.

In the other instance, a few of us were cutting up badly during the school-wide Christmas celebration Mass. We were wiggly, giggly, giddy, and ready to bust out for the holiday break, which began promptly after the service. However, at the end of the Mass, just before the final blessing, we had a come to Jesus moment. Fr. Ward, one of my least favorite men of the cloth, called us out in front of the student body, faculty and parents present for the Mass. He announced, in a voice hovering at the edge of restraint, name by name, that we remain after the building had been vacated. Afterwards, with the field house empty, the four of us sitting in the front row, he brought down a spewing rant of contempt for our sacrilegious behavior. He was so mad that he was shaking violently and his face had turned blood red. I thought he was going to have a heart attack.

Due to the heinous nature of our crime, our punishment was, over our Christmas break, answer spiritual questions like “What is the true nature of Jesus Christ?” and “Why should God not let us burn in hell for disrespecting the Mass.” And so on. Each of the answers would be no less than five hundred hand-written words. There were about eight other questions of similar nature. Failure to complete this task would, as we were sternly warned by one pissed off priest, result in expulsion and excommunication. We talked briefly of mutiny among ourselves, but it was senior year. We figured it would not be the time to buck the system.

I realize that some of these tales paint the picture of a budding thug, but really, it was all innocent fun. No one was ever hurt, and I was never malicious. I will also say, because the guilty love company, I was not alone in most of my transgressions. The common denominators of all my actions was the innate stupidity of youth; that need for attention, approval, and validation from friends and females, or just the iron-willed attempt to assert my independence as I moved through adolescence into young-adulthood.

Along with the high pay and three months off in the summer, one of the things I enjoyed as a classroom teacher was the opportunity to observe the constant stream of stupid stuff that high school students undertook in their own adolescent struggles. I have to admit, it was nice to be on the outside looking in, especially after all my foibles. A while back, during my last year in the classroom, I had an opportunity to witness one of the most imaginative and creative undertakings in an attempt to get attention. This, dear readers, was one for the books. Yet, it was an event that harkened me back to my days of teen stupidity.

Now, if you look up “stupid” in the dictionary, there is probably a picture of a 10th grader next to it saying “see sophomore.” Sophomores are sweet, wonderful, loving, and good-natured students, and I always enjoyed working with them. They are at an interesting age where hormones and pheromones, adolescence, society, culture, meta-cognition, and the distraction of the opposite sex are all spinning at high speed though the adolescent atom-smasher of life. However, God bless’em, they are inherently brainless. They just can’t help it. I spent about eighteen years teaching sophomores, so I knew the beast well.

On the first day of school that year, the usual cast of characters gathered in my room for lunch. It was a central location, and we had a “He–Man, Woman-Haters Club” among the “boys”. Lunch was always a male, invitation only, closed-door event. Lunch was thirty sacred minutes of man time. It was a time for the boys to rant and rave, bitch and moan, laugh and cry, compare notes, and bust each other’s chops. There was chatter in the room as it filled up.
“So, how’s your classes looking?”
“Good, how’s yours?”
“Full. I need more desks. Does anyone have any extra desks? Hey, do you have Jasmine Jones? …
My friend and teaching partner, Jay, entered the “manctuary” and plopped down next to me. We shared a group of about forty students in an interdisciplinary English and History program split into two classes. By lunch, we’d both had a chance to see the entire group.
“So, what do you think?” I asked him, as I bit into my sandwich. He reached into his lunch bag and began to dig in.
“It looks like a good group; we had a nice discussion about current events in both classes. But…” He began chuckling as he poured dressing over his salad.
“What?”
“Well, did you see the kid with the fangs?”
Hill, sitting in another part of the room, quickly piped in.
“You have a guy with fangs?” About that time, Cally walked in.
“Hey Jay and Bob have a guy with fangs?” Cally raised his eyebrows
“Fangs, what kind of fangs?” I was curious now too.
“Yeah, what kind of fangs, Jay?” He was ready to eat and getting a little irritable.
“What do you mean, ‘What kind of fangs?’ how many freakin’ kind of fangs are there? He’s got fang-fangs…you know, like Dracula fangs.” Laughter filled the room.
Personally, I didn’t see fangs in either class. I don’t know how I could have missed that. I thought I got a good look at everyone, but again, I didn’t do a tooth check. I needed answers.
“Which kid? ”
Jay started in on a hard-boiled egg and answered between bites.
“Bram something…boy… my first period class, your second period class.” I thought for a moment, mentally running through faces I’d just seen for the first time a hour ago. One came to mind.
“Was he the dude with the long hair parted in the middle, dressed all in black?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
Teachers are very much like cops and fire fighters. They’re public servants doing trench work, and it is a tough job. Seriously, in some cases, in the toughest schools, teachers deserve hazardous duty pay; they really do put their lives on the line. The good ones band together, and they are a very tight and private bunch. They watch each other’s backs, but they are also known for high jinks and the ones I worked with were renowned and unmerciful ball-busters. Jay and I would not hear the last of this Fang issue.

Well, the semester kicked into high gear and school time, which has a life of its own, began to monopolize everyone’s time. True to form, it only took about a week for the practical jokes to start. Fang updates had been a topic of our lunch since the revelation on day one, and it was only a matter of time with my crew.

I had Fang second period, and shortly after class began one day, there was a knock on the door. I was at my desk on the other side of the room, and so I asked the girl in the front row by the door to open it for me. In walked a skinny little student, probably a freshman. In his hand, was a large wooden stake, with just a little red paint, similar to blood, at the tip.
“Uhhh, you’re Mr. Alexander, right? Mr. Callahan asked me to deliver this to you.” He held the stake out, and a few kids began snickering.

I was unflappable back in my day, but I just barely kept it together as I quickly walked towards the student. I grabbed the stake, shuffled the lad out of my room, and sent him on his way. Once in the hall, I could hear laughter coming from the principal’s office a few feet from my room. I knew they were in there, watching me on the security camera, laughing their assess off. I gave the finger to the camera, stuffed the steak into an empty locker outside my classroom and walked back in. I could hear them roaring as I slammed the door.

And so it went, at least twice a week for the first few weeks of school. The stake was only the first in a long parade of items delivered to my classroom during second period, Fang’s period. Later came a clove of garlic from Hill, then a crucifix from Wallenstein, then “holy water” from Flinch, then the autographed picture of Grandpa Munster from Kirkland. I have to admit, it was all pretty funny, but more and more students were catching on. Apparently, everyone knew about the fangs, and everyone had seen the fangs…except for me. When I did see them, it was an unforgettable, Scoobie Doo kind of moment.

The class was taking the weekly vocab quiz, and I was monitoring them as they worked on their answers. While the rest of the students frantically scribbled trying to finish the timed quiz, Fang, in black t-shirt, pants, socks and shoes, sat there with an empty paper, arms folded, looking at me. It wasn’t an evil look, but rather a look of bemusement at the mere mortal that stood before him. I’d been trying to avoid looking him in the eyes during these awkward moments, but I couldn’t hold back, and we locked sights. Then, with slow, creepy, phantasmagoric deliberation, he drew his face into a bone-chilling smile, revealing two small, perfect fangs, framed by thin red lips.

I said I was unflappable, but I have a confession…I flapped, I mean I really flapped. At that moment, in my mind, and probably his, he was the dark lord, and I was about to be vampire juicy-juice. Goose bumps exploded up and down every inch of my body; I got the willies, the heebie jeebies, and creeps all at once, and I think I may have swooned for a moment. I was under the spell of the Count. The recounting of the story at lunch that day drew raucous laughter. Wallenstien took a red Sharpie and put two fang marks on my neck. Like I said earlier, these guys were relentless.

Fang’s actions indicated that a Count was not worthy of sophomoric work, and so he continued to do nothing. I tried to give most stubborn students a few weeks to come around, and maybe start producing and catching up before it was too late. Fang was no exception. I was sure I could jump-start him; I prided myself on motivating students. We talked, or at least I tried to talk to him. It ended being me talking at him, and him having nothing to say to me. I was tempted to bring up the fangs, but I figured he was looking for attention, and I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. Finally, with the halfway point in the quarter drawing near, it was starting to get critical for Fang to kick his academic performance into gear. I moved to the next level and decided I would give Fang’s folks a jingle and see if we couldn’t all work on this problem together.
Kicked back in my office at home that evening, I dialed the “home” phone number on Fang’s info sheet. I had a gut feeling this was going to be an interesting conversation. Fang’s father picked up after three rings.
“Hello?”
“Hello, this is Bob Alexander from Rose High. I’m Bram’s English teacher. Is this Mr. Stoker?”
“Uhh, yes it is. His voice dropped a bit. “How can I help you?”
“Well, Mr. Stoker…” I started in on a narrative that I knew by heart.
“…I’m having some trouble with Bram. He doesn’t turn in any homework; he won’t complete any class assignments, and he hasn’t passed a quiz or test since school started.” I usually paused at this spot to allow for an initial reaction. Extreme diplomacy was necessary in conversations like this. You never knew how parents were going to react, and it was important to get a read on them early in the conversation.
There was silence on the other end, and then a long sigh. I was hoping his next words wouldn’t be “We don’t know what to do with him anymore.” That always was a bad sign and usually followed by “what should we do?” Mr. Stoker sighed again and spoke.
“We don’t know what to do with him; what should we do with him?” It was my turn to sigh. “He just won’t do anything, and we’ve tried everything.” He sounded exasperated, and I felt badly for him. I could tell, just by the little that Bram said and did, that he was a very bright kid. Again, I figured the fangs were his way to get attention, and maybe rattle his Dad’s cage. In hindsight, I should have ended the conversation then, but I decided to forge ahead.
“Uhh, Mr. Stoker…there’s one other thing.”
“What’s that?” He sighed again.
“Umm, well, there’s the fangs…” I let the word “fangs” somewhat softly drift out, fading at the end. I felt ridiculous even saying it. Suddenly, the conversation picked up quickly.
“What did you say? What did you say? Did you say fangs?”
“Uhh, yes sir, I said…fangs.” His voice raised an octave.
“He’s wearing the FANGS in CLASS?”
“Yes, he’s….”
“He’s WEARING THE FANGS IN CLASS?” This was bad.
“Yes, Sir, he’s wearing the fangs in …”
“HE’S WEARING THE FANGS IN CLASS?” He was yelling at the top of his lungs now, repeating it over and over. The last exclamation was one of the saddest statements I’ve ever heard from a parent.
“HE IS WEARING THE FANGS IN CLAssssssssssss….” His voice wavered in a painful dirge, with a howl the likes of which I’ve never heard, nor ever wish to hear again. It was bone chilling, and it was sad. It was creepy. I hung the phone up. It was tough hearing a grown man wail.

Sadly, that semester, Fang fought me tooth and nail through each grading period. It was a pattern that would define our relationship for the majority of the semester. He refused to do little, if any work, though it was evident from discussion that he was uber-intelligent. He was very likable, he just didn’t do anything. Maybe he couldn’t do anything with all the sunlight around, I don’t know.

I was determined that I could reach him, save him, and turn him around. Fang was determined that he was going to do nothing, and we couldn’t ever seem to find any common ground. In over twenty years teaching, I’ve only had five students fail my class. Two of them just didn’t show up to take the final exam, so I had no choice. The other two, God bless’em, they were just plain brainless, and there was nothing anyone could do about that. Then there was Fang. He never caused any problems. He was never disrespectful, and every occasionally he would contribute to class, but for some reason, he tried as hard as he could to fail; I mean he really set his mind to it. If I could have just gotten him to do something, maybe I would feel justified in throwing him a few bones, but he just wouldn’t do anything, and in the end he failed the class.

Stones and glass houses, and all of that…as I said earlier, I’ve been guilty of doing plenty of stupid stuff, especially as a teen. So, I really could relate to Fang and his quest at that time in his life. Maybe he was in love? Maybe he really wanted to be a vampire? Maybe he wanted to rattle some cages? I don’t know. However, I also had a job to do at that point in my life. I couldn’t give grades away, and I couldn’t pass him because he really was a sweet kid.

Maybe, though, in the end, I think both of us learned a lesson. For me, it was a reminder that I was once very much a “Fang” in my own way. Whatever our reasons, and what ever the means we chose to express ourselves, we really had lots in common, especially the bond of doing stupid stuff to call attention to ourselves. Ultimately, it takes a little courage to put yourself out there…sometimes way out there. Maybe, sophomores aren’t as brainless as I thought they were. Fang was definitely more relentless than I was when it came to sticking to his guns. During the great earring incident, I gave in to what I wanted and conformed to the norm, for whatever the reasons. Fang didn’t. He was determined to be different, and he was determined to do nothing in class, for whatever the reasons. At that time, I also learned I couldn’t save everyone, especially if they didn’t want to be saved. I know for a fact that my class was the only class he ever failed. Maybe that was a wakeup call. I spoke with Fang the other day about this story; it’s been about four years since our paths crossed. During the course of our conversation, I asked him, “Was the price of the fangs and failing my class worth it?” He answered with an emphatic, “Yes.” All things considered, I think maybe Fang came out ahead. He did prove his point, and he showed just how hip and ahead of his time he really was. After all, vampire stories are in these days.

Note: No vampires were harmed during the writing of this blog.